Fucking McGill Student Clones Demonic Centipede And Lets It Loose In My Apartment

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING BLOG ENTRY HAS ME DROPPING THE F-BOMB A LOT AND GENERALLY FREAKING RIGHT THE FUCK OUT

Someone needs to make university students watch more horror movies. I was all set to write a lengthy review of the whole Flashpoint series, including all the tie-ins, why it had potential overall, and why it ultimately fell flat on its ass. Instead, you guys are going to have to wait for a few days, because I have to tell the unbelievably impossible story of how a demonic centipede just tried to eat my fucking soul.

I regret not taking a picture of the beast, because nobody is going to believe it existed otherwise. Basically, my neighbour’s lover is a McGill university student, explaining the random 3:00am parties often held on Wednesday nights (or Thursday mornings, if you want to be technical). Said McGill student is studying all sorts of science-y bullshit that screams “ironic death in 77 minutes” if she were living in the world of a two-hour B-movie.

Said science-y bullshit resulted in her creating a, and I fucking quote, “Lithobius Forficatus Daemonia.” That’s science-y bullshit for “a fucking demonic centipede.” Well, more or less. Basically, remove the word daemonia from the name and hit up Wikipedia with the rest. It gets you a picture of the above.

Our pals at Wikipedia explain that this thing is normally between 18 and 30mm long. That means nature itself has decided that these things are to be considered insanely huge when they hit a measly 3cm. The above-mentioned McGill student used some sort of science-y bullshit research coupled with fucking steroids usually reserved for milk cows to create what she considered to be the fucking demonic version of nature’s nasty little creature. Her version of the Alien from Ridley Scott (at the “Here’s Johnny –in your chest!” stage of the creature’s development) apparently measured in at 27 FUCKING CENTIMETERS.

I shit you not. There I was, sitting on my bed, typing. Suddenly, I hear what sounds like eerie wind. You know, like when it gets through a small pipe or crack or whatever it’s blowing through that makes it sound like death itself during the winter. However, it’s not coming from the wind. There is no fucking wind. Instead, the creepy shrieking is coming from the foot of my fucking bed.

Or, more accurately, from the fucking demonic centipede on top of the fucking covers at the fucking foot of my fucking bed. In other words, it was fucking hissing at me. Naturally, I froze in confused fucking terror. It replied by running towards me while hissing even fucking louder.

At this point, I am now making fearful grunting sounds that are reminiscent of a cross between Fred Flintstone's “Yabba Dabba Do!” and a teenaged boy taking hockey slapshots to the nads. I somehow make it to a can of Raid. I hose the motherfucker down with the entire goddamn contents, to the point where I should probably throw out the entire bed in order to avoid inhaling any remnants of the insecticide.

It reacts by fucking replicating. Sort of: the demonic centipede splits in two and runs in separate directions. One makes it off the bed and the half without a head dies just short, presumably because it realized that being alive with no head is too much of an abomination to exist. The buttless half starts climbing my goddamn wall, so I run back to the kitchen, grab scissors, and stab the hellspawn right in whatever passes for its throat. Want to know what it does next? You won’t believe me. Seriously, you won’t, so start an office pool and take bets.

All bets placed? Ok, here we go: the half-science project, half-damnation itself twists its head at impossible angles, like that scene in The Exorcist, and starts fucking eating the blades of the scissors. At this point, I am shouting “Oh my fucking God! Oh my fucking shit! What the fucking fuck?” loudly and repeatedly enough that the neighbour’s lover realizes where her evil science experiment of doom has run off to. She knocks on my door, insisting she can help. I answer, let her into my messy apartment and calmly explain that “Aah! Oh my fucking God! Sweet, merciful monkey fuck! Aah! Aah!”

She rushes to my bedroom (like all women do. Hiyo!) and then slouches in despair. Alas, the creature has expired. Its life has ceased. Its body gave up the ghost. It fucking spontaneously combusted. Not a major blaze of hellfire or anything, but where the scissors once were, now there randomly exists a small flame akin to what you’d normally find at the tip of a birthday cake’s candle.

Stupid McGill student explains all the science-y bullshit to me that I mentioned earlier, while I stand there swearing to God that I can feel the creature’s disembodied spectre crawling all fucking over me. We don’t know how it split in two or how it chewed fucking stainless steel or how it randomly caught fire. Science pees itself while crying when that shit happens.

What science can explain, however, is that the reason it ran towards me instead of frightfully for cover as the normal version of this demonic centipede would, was because it was attracted to the body heat found deep within the core portion of my abdomen. In other words, it clearly tried to eat my fucking soul. At this point, I let her gather the remains of the beast, escort her out of my apartment and start wondering if my medical insurance will cover the decades of therapy I’m clearly going to be needing.